Thursday, 30 September 2010

O my child, that flame, there! That moth! Mark Lovett is a Mothman, very much like the Cornish Owlman we all know and love; and Ignis Asset Management is the flame, very much like the sort of flame you see leaving my mouth on a good night of burnings in our favourite place.

O Master, you must be mistaken! They say that the Mothman is a man-sized creature with glowing red eyes and the wings of a moth. Some say he has no head. They reckon his eyes are set in his chest - as a sort of compensation, I suppose. Have you actually seen a photograph of Mr Lovett? He's one of these cheerful types without a care in the world. Hardly Mothman material.

O my child, it's an illusion. Look at him! Look beneath the cheerful exterior. These demonic ones are all the same. They smile at us, but Christ knows what atrocities they are cooking up. Oh, I see his wings! I see his red eyes!

O Master, can you see him now? Is he here?

Yes, I see him now. He is here.

Where? You're having a psychotic episode! There's no Mothman. And no Mr Lovett. Just me, the voice in your head. Isn't my voice enough? Why must you keep pushing it to the limit? You will drive yourself insane. One day, you won't be able to get back.

Oh, I see the flame too! If I were to touch Ignis Asset Management, it would have no effect on me. But a moth in that flame? What do you think will happen, when he gets there? Only a few days to go! He will be destroyed! And good riddance! Mark Lovett ain't no friendly Owlman, stuffing his face with pasties!

O Master, it's true, Mr Lovett will start work at Ignis next week, but there will be no destruction of no freakin' Mothman in no flippin' flame! Get a grip! With around £69 billion of assets under management, Ignis offers a compelling proposition for advisers and investors. Its unique model comprises a series of entrepreneurial investment teams, in both its core proprietary business and its joint venture boutiques: Cartesian, Argonaut and HEXAM. So can't you see, there's nothing to worry about?!

O my child, Monday, there will be nothing to worry about! Monday can't come soon enough. Then he'll be out of my mind. Hopefully, I won't be out of my mind. If only Mr Lovett were half man half biscuit. That's something I could cope with. A mug of tea would settle it. But I get a moth! Why me? What have I done to deserve this? Is it a test? Did the gods tell this terrible Mothman to hound me to ... to an early grave? No! I refuse to believe that. I know who's behind this. The world's most demonic financier, Jack -

O Master, you're getting into the realm of fantasy now; not that you've ever been anywhere else. [I will never leave the realm of fantasy. It's where all the action is.] Having said that, one man's fantasy is another man's everyday reality. [Listen to this mystic child, dear reader. He knows a thing or two.] But you can't keep blaming Jack for everything.

Yes I can! I know the gods wouldn't harm me. I know the ghosts of the dead financiers wouldn't send this moth my way. It can only be Jack Pickles, backed to the hilt by Satan! Who else has the muscle? Who has the will?

Oh, for crying out loud! If that's what you think, what you fear, I won't question it any more. But look within!

Yes, Lloyd Blankfein is concerned about all the tough banking regulations that may be coming down like a ton of bricks on Goldman heads in certain jurisdictions (like Europe). He told no one in particular: 'Operations can be moved globally and capital can be accessed globally.' Well, that's true. But is there more? Does Lloyd have a cunning plan?

Well, I have been speaking to Lloyd. Actually, he was speaking to me, and I was trying to get a word in edgeways. These are the edited highlights (and yet again, I have had to censor Mr Blankfein's foul language): 'Mikey, you don't mind me phoning you all the time, do ya, Mikey? (No, Lloyd, it's fine.) I know you don't work for me no more, but I kinda miss you, you know what I mean? It ain't the same, you know, trying to have a conversation with a mindless thug like Viniar. You're more ... (Civilized?) That's it, Mikey! You're civilized. And cultured. All this f**king s**t you know about the great French poets, it's quite impressive, man. (Lloyd, what do you want?) I thought you would never ask, you ****! (Yes, very amusing, but I am actually trying to cut down on the amount of swearing in my blog. So I'm afraid that won't make it. Tell me what you want. I'm a busy man, Lloyd.) I want some advice. Do you think I should move Goldman Sachs into the desert - lock, stock and barrel? (The physical desert or the astral desert?) Probably a combination of the two. Maybe just the astral. I don't know. (No, Lloyd. You don't want to leave the City or Wall Street. You need a physical presence in these locations.) But I want to get away, Mikey. It's not just the regulations, and all the commie ***** in Europe. I need ... (You need to escape, Lloyd. I know how you feel.) Do you? Do you really? Sometimes I feel so alone. (Lloyd, you have a Romantic longing for escape: to eternity or to exotic climes.) I also have a Romantic interest in violence. (Let's focus on your longing for escape, shall we? I'll work a bit of violence in, if you behave yourself.) All right. (Lloyd, there's blood coming out of your nose!) What?! (Now, focus on that. Wipe a finger under your nose.) Okay. Can you see me? (Put the finger in your mouth. Taste the blood.) Are you sure about this, Mike? (Just do what I say!) You're the expert. Right, I've tasted my own blood. What now? (Let it carry you away, the taste of your own blood. NOW! Imagine you are a shark in the astral sea. You love the taste of blood!) Surely not my own?! (Stick with it! You keep moving forward. Your eyes are dead. Everyone thinks you're evil. You're a killer! How do you feel?) Not great, Mikey. Is this some kind of sick f**king motivational bulls**t pathworking nonsense you've dreamed up? (Yes.) And will you be sending me an invoice for this? (It won't cost you more than $10,000, I swear.) Michael, you're not Tony Robbins. Stick to what you know. (Don't you feel empowered?) No, I don't. I feel stupid and humiliated, and I've got blood all over my f**king shirt. How did you make my nose bleed? (An old shaman's trick.) Whatever. What should I do about Goldman, the desert? (Forget about the desert, for the time being. You're a shark, Lloyd. You're a shark in the astral sea. Go for that blood, boy!) Goodbye, Michael. You f**king nut!'

Well, I got rid of him, didn't I? It'll put him off phoning me for a while. Result!

Wednesday, 29 September 2010

I never give up, do I? But let's see if we [I] can attack this problem from many different angles, all at once, a Cubist post! First we need some raw material, slightly inadequate. Now I'm just going to attack it with random words from that most respectable of demons, Charles Baudelaire. Oh, he has his uses. Let's find out who Christian Wiesendanger really is, beneath all the muck of everyday life!

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Report angel blood confirms [who writes this shit? (Times News World) is it a professional organization? reports confirm] that tears former Credit Suisse executive, Christian Wiesendanger [,] has been soul warrior appointed by Swiss angel virile delight mystic bank murder UBS to lead the wealth management of Switzerland. Christian Wiesendanger has been ravished associated with desert Credit Suisse since 2001. UBS (UBSN.VX) (UBS.N), the world's second biggest love wealth manager in terms of assets, by hiring him from its cross-town chasm rival continues the eternal hate battle for Swiss banking supremacy. Eternal battle, I like that! The forces of light flowers against the forces of darkness. Fighting Satan and his shimmering virginity in a prisoner quivering and obscene empire of evil, I should magic imagine.

Wiesendanger off [eh? off?] late is stone broken sweet skulls heading the wealth management for Latin America and will winds take up his bleeding lucid position at the beginning of October. Wiesendanger is said to replace veteran bliss dagger-thrust banker Stefan Bodmer ocean and would [will? I give up!] report to Lukas Gaehwiler, recently appointed as succulent CEO of UBS surge Switzerland. Wiesendanger has also joined hands in a completely nostrils and ephemeral non-sexual way with a number of coffin lovely bells ringing in angry summers gone and evening cool intoxication of ex-Credit Suisse executives, including Gaehwiler who is the former tyrannical convict creature CEO of lullaby wickedness UBS, Switzerland.

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No, it hasn't really worked, has it? I'm still none the wiser. Bit of a mess. But let's not get depressed. My methods won't always work. Remember, I'm trying to get to the heart of reality. Or rather, I'm trying to uncover some ultimate reality. That's not going to be easy. I'm going to fail - a lot. But at least I'm trying, eh? It would be so easy to just accept things, the way other websites do. 'Oh, Christian Wiesendanger has gone to UBS? That's nice!' No, that's not the way I operate. I dig a bit deeper. Rimbaud once said that if the visionary is destroyed by his visions, other horrible workers will come. That may be true with literature in general, but I would be very surprised if this [this here] happened in the field of financial writing ever again. So I've got to keep going. People are relying on me. If I don't deliver the goods, who will?

I've got a feeling this Simko woman is responsible for leveraging Barclays Wealth's rich intellectual capital and its highly tailored global product offering in support of client service, business development and strategy. [Blah, blah, blah. Words, words, words. They said you were a fishmonger. I didn't believe them.] Just a feeling, mind. But I get these feelings. I get them a lot. And I've got lots of good feelings about Caroline. Oh yeah! I reckon she's going to do a great job. I mean, she's a great girl, after all ... that has happened. Do you not think? Do you not feel? Do you not see? Are you alive? Please tell me you're alive. Just nod your head. Give me a sign! I'm desperate! I don't want to be alone. I know you're there. Inside.

Just like Garett Stoffels, Caroline has an MBA from The Fuqua School of Business at Duke University. I'm sure it will come in handy. It probably has already - who knows? But I think a university education ain't important, not in our world, the world of blood and burnings. I went to the University of Life, myself. Then, after graduation, I went to the University of Death. Snakes all over me. Howlings in the night. I wanted the worms to be my friends. I'll never forget the Hollywood Bowl, Fourth of July weekend, 1968. I wasn't there, of course. I was born in 1969. It's all drifting now, ain't it? I'm not even going to pretend that ... never mind. Reality has to change. It can't stay the same.

Let's play a little jazz. One thought leads to another. One image to another. The next thing you know, you are gone. So let's imagine what death is like. They can only teach you so much, the dead financiers. Professors of death! Ghostly hands touching us! [Were you there?] It doesn't get any better than that. But it's not the same. I tried to prepare. I went down into the darkness. As I say, like Jim, I wanted the worms to be my friends. But it wasn't a permanent arrangement. I came back, into the light, with a smile on my face, and a song in my heart. [Jim's still there. Singing in his grave.] It wasn't death. It was a holiday from life. So let's imagine what death is really like. It goes on and on and on? Well, no, not necessarily. All depends. We could get new lives. I don't know what the ghosts of the dead financiers are planning to do. Can you imagine them in the City again, or on Wall Street? They've had their time; and it suits them, the ghostly life. But you never know, not with them. My guess? We will hardly notice the worms. They will take our bodies, but our souls will get away. Up, up and away! No sensible person wants the worms to be his/her friends. Let's be honest, Jim had some funny ideas. I just hope Guy Hands isn't being led astray. David Wormsley wouldn't say no though.

We've been here before, haven't we? The FSA likes to smear people, likes to say they are not fit, or proper. It has fined (and banned) former cash equities broker (used to work at TFS Derivatives) Fabio Massimo De Biase (I just call him 'Mo') £252,239 for acting without integrity. Apparently, he paid £131,000 in kickbacks to Anjam Ahmad, a hedge fund trader at AKO Capital. Jesus! It's like handing out speeding tickets at the Indy 500. Sometimes the shit piles so high, you need wings to stay above it. It was a lie, and the more I saw of them, the more I hated lies. Mo, man, you are fit, but, my gosh, don't you just know it.

What can we do with the FSA? Oh, it'll be gone soon, sure. But in the meantime? I think the FSA needs to be re-educated. It needs to learn what a fit and proper person really is.

A fit and proper person is a man or a woman who burns on the astral plane. That's where the real money is. That's where the fit and proper people congregate. It doesn't matter what the cold ones think, or say, or do. They cannot judge our reality by the standards of their reality. And just take a look at the fit and proper money gods! Big Herb, our ultimate Master. And Ganesh the elephant god, the one with the fit trunk, the proper trunk, the way it was meant to be. Are you going to tell me that they are living their astral lives in violation of some rules that were made on earth? Well, maybe you are going to tell me that. Don't be a fool! Big Herb and Ganesh are above the FSA. If you want to dream the glorious dream, as some of us do, of spending eternity with the gods, then you, my child, my reader, must raise yourself high above the FSA! And the SEC. Let's not forget the SEC. The SEC is just as bad. One day, the earth will be gone. Yes, it will. Where will you be then? The physical desert and the physical sea, gone! That's why you must plan for your future. I don't want to see you suffering, dear reader. I want you with me on the plane, with sticky money stuck to your face. Am I out of line? Is this desire of mine so unreasonable? NO! You will come with me. You know it makes sense.

Tuesday, 28 September 2010

Rimbaud experienced his great crisis when he was eighteen, at which moment in his life he had reached the edge of madness; from this point on his life is an unending desert. I reached mine at the age of thirty-six to thirty-seven, which is the age at which Rimbaud dies. From this point on, my life begins to blossom. Rimbaud turned from literature to life; I did the reverse. Rimbaud fled from the chimeras he had created; I embraced them. Sobered by the folly and waste of mere experience of life, I halted and converted my energies to creation. I plunged into writing with the same fervor and zest that I had plunged into life. Instead of losing life, I gained life; miracle after miracle occurred, every misfortune being transformed into a good account. Rimbaud, though plunging into a realm of incredible climates and landscapes, into a world of phantasy as strange and marvelous as his poems, became more and more bitter, taciturn, empty and sorrowful. - Henry Miller

I have no idea who Keith Danko is, but I am determined to find out. Please don't tell me he has joined Titan Capital Group as a partner. I already know that. I am not stupid. And don't tell me that he is a hedge fund industry veteran with years of experience, a man who has served his time at CQS, Acam Advisors, and Goldman Sachs. All that means nothing. Tell me Arthur Rimbaud wrote poems. I won't know who he is. Tell me Picasso painted pictures. I won't know who he is. Tell me Gillian Tett floats in front of me, a lovely vision, almost like a real woman. I might have a clue then. But we cannot know who a man is. Not by his name. Not by his job title. I want answers! Who is Keith Danko?

How many idiots in the history of the world have written poetry? Millions! Arthur Rimbaud was a poet. He was the only poet. How many idiots in the history of the world have painted pictures? Christ knows! Picasso was a painter. He was the only painter. Tell me Lautreamont wrote a novel. I dare you. A poetic novel. Tell me Michael Fowke has been writing this blog for over three years. I just might believe you. But who is Michael Fowke? I want to know who I am. Why am I so desperate to know who Keith Danko is, when I don't even know who I am? There must be an answer to the mystery. I wish I knew who Gillian Tett was, a thousand years ago, in another life. Who will she be, in the future? And who will I be? Who will Keith Danko be? Not that he will have any business coming between us.

If I’m going to continue with this blog, things will have to change. Reality will have to change. It's no good all this, this, this stream of names, stream of companies. I don't know who anyone is. I don't know what anyone does. I am stuck in a reality I never asked for. How long can a revolution last? No one knows what is happening. I am not satisfied. Close to three hundred thousand words now. But I am not satisfied. I dream that one day I will be able to reach a reality that changes everything. Me and the world. And everyone I know. Everything I know. Most art is worthless. That's because the artist is worthless, as a person. That's why there is only one poet, one painter, one literary blogger. I don't know what Lautreamont was. A sort of poet. I don't know what Kafka was. A prophet? He transcended literature. Who is Keith Danko? What does he do? Why do I need to know?

I fell into this. I am not leaving it. I have turned real people into fictional characters. I can't go back now. Imagine writing a play, or a novel. With puppets getting involved in various adventures. What an absurdity that would be! I couldn't do it. I couldn't muster the enthusiasm for such nonsense. Imagine a story. A story that starts at the beginning and ends at the end. A story that isn't real. Ridiculous! No, it's much better to write about a crisis, before it begins, and then to see it through to the bitter end. The financial world transformed by visions! With chaos. With many styles. With Americanisms, and vulgar language, literary quotes and fragments of songs, and voices out of nowhere, all streaming to the end. Wherever the end is, or will be. So, yes, Keith Danko is a part of this. Gillian is a part of this. I could stop, I suppose. Leave it for fifty years, while I work as a ... what could I work as? I don't have a lot of options. Strange thoughts, strange words. My trade.

I will never know who Keith Danko is. He is not Hamlet. He is not Faust. He is not Maldoror. He is not Johan Nilsen Nagel. He is not Pechorin. He is not Georg Bendemann. He is KEITH DANKO! He is real! Do you understand? More to the point, do I understand? Ladies and gentleman, you have to appreciate the fact that Keith Danko is as real as I am. Unfortunately, that's not saying much. Let's leave it here. I have exhausted myself. I am fed up with myself. I hate myself when I'm like this.

Yes, Mark Allpress, with eyes that have seen blood, that have seen chaos, is joining Liontrust this Thursday. Just two days to go! Mark will be head of retail distribution (responsible for the sales team, they can't look after themselves, not in the astral nights) and he will be focusing on growing business from advisers, financial shamans, discretionary and wealth managers, platforms and life companies, and money mystics. It's going to be a great adventure, after the boring time he had at Old Mutual Asset Management. How is he preparing for it?

He's spending some time with me. Actually, in me. In my subconscious. I've invited him in. He's swirling around in my head. His eyes may have seen blood before, may have seen chaos, but Mark only has limited experience of the mystical life. Those Old Mutual slags were holding him back. Now he wants to break free. He knows he will be tested at Liontrust. He knows he's going to have to be responsible for those children in the sales team. It won't be easy.

[... death blood angels in death blood, hello, here you are, have some blood, help yourself, it goes around, you are here, swirling around with the skeleton look, rainy days, cloudy skies, sunshine all gone, must stay positive, this is no way to make money, all down and depressed, we want life, we want voices, you'll have to share this space with Gillian, she doesn't take up much room, you're not fussy, I can tell, you're not fuzzy, it would show, everything is clear here, you hear, everything is cool, even when it's hot, which is quite often, because we burn on the plane, all of us together, one big happy family in the desert, ready and willing, waiting for our orders, we like to do what we're told, we are obedient, we are committed, we don't want to escape, this is the life we have chosen, some of them go, some of them come, it's chaos, but you know that, you are familiar with chaos, death blood angels in death blood ...]

Monday, 27 September 2010

And I feel I've let him down. Oh, I do. John Thornton wanted to be chairman of HSBC so badly. But Douglas Flint has got the job, and so it seems that John will be leaving some time next year. But I could have stepped in. I could have had a few words with a few people. I know a lot of people.

Personally, I think John will be better off away from HSBC. Mikey Geoghegan is going to be leaving with £36 million. John, himself, has a massive fortune. This ex-Goldman banker is worth a reputed £300 million. So what's the problem?

Well, I have been speaking to my dear friend Johnny Thornton. This is what was said: 'Michael, I am very unhappy. Very unhappy, man. (You'll get over it, kid. Life goes on.) It ain't just about the money, you know. I piss on money. I wanted the power. (Look, kid, I - how much you weigh, Slick? When you weighed one hundred and sixty-eight pounds you were beautiful. You coulda been another Stephen Green. And that skunk we got you for a mystic guide, he brought you along too fast.) It wasn't him, Mikey, it was you. Remember that night in the astral desert? You flew down to my cave and you said, "Kid, this ain't your night. We're going for the price on Flint." You remember that? "This ain't your night"! My night! I coulda taken Flint apart! So what happens? He gets the chairman shot at HSBC, and what do I get? A one-way ticket to Palookaville! You was my Master, Mikey, you shoulda looked out for me a little bit. You shoulda taken care of me just a little bit so I wouldn't have to take them dives for the short-end money. (Oh, I had some bets down for you. You saw some money.) You don't understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I coulda been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am, let's face it. It was you, Mikey. It was you.'

Friday, 24 September 2010

But that's not the worst of it. I think the FSA has been following me in the astral desert of our love.

Just last night, Bobby Diamond and I were floating over the mystical sands. 'Mikey, who is that there, on the horizon?' A shadowy figure. It looked like Margaret Cole. 'Bobby, is this the promised end? Have they come for us?' We floated off, back towards our favourite cave. Nice and dry. No bats. 'Mikey, it can't be the FSA, can it? Margaret Cole wouldn't dare venture on to the astral plane.' In our cave, we listened. We heard the wild animals of the desert night, and Margaret. 'Bobby, that's her! Listen!' A wailing sound. 'Mikey, she's crying! She obviously has no appetite for the plane. She can't stand the horror.' It can seem like horror, sometimes. But then silence from the shadowy figure. I looked out over the sands. 'Bobby, whatever it was, it's gone now.'

Was it Margaret? Is she that crazy, that bold?

I don't mind them listening to my phone calls, the FSA spies. If they want to enjoy the Lloyd Blankfein Experience, as he screams obscenities down the line, that's fine with me. I could do with the moral support. But I will not tolerate their presence on the astral plane. O my children, what happens in the desert, stays in the desert.

The penalties will be harsh for any snoopers from the cold world. Eternal damnation to anyone from the FSA found anywhere near my subconscious or the subconscious of any of my friends or associates! I will throw them into the pit!

Thursday, 23 September 2010

Yes, I'm afraid so. Vince Cable may be all emotional and odd (basically confused) in his little socialist head, but Paul Marshall - the founder of Marshall Wace Asset Management - is just as confused in his little capitalist head. It's bad enough that he bankrolls the awful Lib Dems, but read this, from the Telegraph: 'The City needs to show a social conscience and responsibility, especially those seen to benefit most in the past few years. They need to be contributing to society much more actively through charity. Both corporately and institutionally, they need to be giving substantially more.' Shocking! Is he a capitalist at all? What is this nonsense?

Can you imagine Daniel Day-Lewis giving money to charity? Well, I suppose he helped set that church up, with the deranged preacher. But the preacher came to a sticky end, didn't he? Had his head smashed in with a bowling pin, I think. I'll have to check that. [Yes, Daniel did him with the pin. A right mess.] The point is, Daniel Day-Lewis is a proper capitalist. Digging for silver, nearly dying in that mine, crawling through the desert, with his gun, getting his money, hiring some men, looking for oil, absolutely covered in the black shit. That's the life!

If Paul Marshall were a real capitalist, and a real man, he would roam the City at night, with a bowling pin, looking for widows and orphans to bludgeon. Now, you may want to argue that widows and orphans are tucked up in bed, late at night. Fair enough. If that's the case, I suggest to Mr Marshall that he breaks into an orphanage or a widowage. It'll be like shooting fish in a barrel! They'll just be lying there, waiting for the bowling pin to settle their hash. Tough love. That's what they call it, the experts, the psychologists. It's the only language that the unfortunate ones in our society understand. You can't wrap them in cotton wool. The sooner they learn that the world doesn't owe them a living, the better off they'll be. If I were an orphan and Mr Marshall crept into my room one night, I would try and squeeze something from the experience. Not literally. But I'm sure it would make me take a good look at myself. Make me buck my ideas up a bit.

I doubt he'll take my advice, dear reader. Like many successful hedge fund managers, Paul Marshall is stuck in his ways. You can lead a horse to the desert, but you can't make it burn. And I'm not even leading him to the desert, am I? He can stay in the City! No skin off my nose. But for the love of Christ and all that is holy, he should forget all these absurd ideas about social conscience and responsibility, and giving money to charity. Start off down that road and God knows where we will end up. If we wanted to live in Cuba or North Korea, we'd book our tickets, wouldn't we?

No one told me Bryan Marsal was the chief executive of Lehman Brothers. And I thought the bank had died a long, long time ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Never mind. You can't know everything. I'm almost a god, but I can't know everything. I burn on the astral plane, every night. Knowledge on the astral plane? Forget about it! But there are still things I need to learn. And I want to learn. I'm not the sort of shaman who turns away from knowledge. To be fair to other shamans, I've never met a shaman who has turned away from knowledge. We are a special breed. Why don't you come up and see us sometime? Make us smile. A little visit. Or join us, even. Yes, become a financial shaman, if you have the discipline and the fearlessness. However, 'he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow', so be warned. It's not for everyone.

Who is Bryan Marsal? Oh, I'm ashamed to say I don't even know who he is. Well, I didn't know. I know now. Yes, I do ron ron research. I don't just throw this blog together, you know, or drag it out of the chaos of my subconscious. Bryan Marsal is a partner with restructuring firm Alvarez & Marsal. I presume the 'Marsal' is Bryan himself, and not his dad or his older brother. Of course it is! He's a partner, ain't he? Not the fucking tea lady. I was going to say 'tea boy', but I've never heard of a tea boy. Maybe I should have said [written] 'post boy' because 'tea lady' suggests that all is not well in the life of this very confused man. But I'm not going to judge him. I have problems of my own, although not of that nature. Only God can judge Mr Marsal. He's like 2Pac.

Where was I? Oh, the money! The sixty billion dollars! Yes, Bryan has managed to find $60 billion down the back of the sofa at Lehman Brothers, and now he's planning to go mad with the money. Absolutely insane, if you ask me. From what I've heard, he has no intention of handing the $60 billion over to Lehman's creditors. They'll only blow it on hookers, champagne, and coke anyway, so what's the point? No, he's going to be doing something far more exciting with the cash, or so he thinks. WHAT?! More exciting than hookers, champagne, and coke?! Yes, more exciting, but just as foolish.

I have been speaking to award-winning financial psychic Keith Busby. This is this what the moron had to say: 'Mikey, you've heard of Bryan Marsal, haven't you? (No.) He's the chief executive of Lehman Brothers. As well as being a partner with restructuring firm Alvarez & Marsal. (Get on with it, you prat.) Well, he's just come into some money. $60 billion! (Not bad. It's an impressive amount. What's he going to spend it on, Keith?) I thought you might ask me that, Mikey. He's not going to spend any of it. He's taking it into the physical desert. He's going to burn it. (All of it?) Yeah. (Bit extravagant, that.) Well, Michael, the thing is, you see, he wants to impress you. He told me the other night, he said, "Keith, I want the shaman, THE SHAMAN, to notice me. I want his love and affection. So I'm going to burn all the money in the desert. There'll be nothing left." (What did he mean, there'll be nothing left?) He's going to burn it to ashes. (Oh yeah? And what did you say?) I said - great! (Really?) Yes. Mikey, I can sense something in your voice. I know when you're upset, I'm psychic. You're not angry with me, are you? (Keith, mate, have you ever heard of the burning of money that never ceases?) Eternal burning? (Yeah. The eternal burning.) Oh shit. (Yes, Keith, oh shit. Oh shit, indeed. You dickhead!) Oh, Mikey! Sorry, man. (How many fucking times do I have to tell you that we don't burn money to ashes?! Jack Pickles does that, not us. And this is why I don't like being in the desert with you, Keith. You've got no fucking common sense, no intelligence, no nothing. You're a waste of space, Keith.) I'm sorry. Listen, I'll get back to Bryan. I'll tell him to call it off. (Yes, I think you better.) Christ! I'm an idiot, Mike.'

How many more chances am I going to give this guy? How many?! Unbelievable!

Wednesday, 22 September 2010

There was also that large painting Uhde had told me about, which was later called Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, and which constitutes the beginning of cubism. I wish I could convey to you the incredible heroism of a man like Picasso, whose spiritual solitude at this time was truly terrifying, for not one of his painter friends had followed him. The picture he had painted seemed to everyone something mad or monstrous. Braque, who had met Picasso through Apollinaire, had declared that it made him feel as if someone were drinking gasoline and spitting fire, and Derain told me that one day Picasso would be found hanging behind his big picture, so desperate did this enterprise appear. - Daniel-Henry Kahnweiler

People say that I'm emotional and odd. Not the CBI. It wouldn't dare. Other people. But I'm emotional and odd in a good way. I'm a mystical capitalist. I'm a financial shaman. I'm a financial writer. Not like any other writer. Who else uses the visionary language of Rimbaud and Lautreamont to discuss hedge funds, banks, bankers, and traders? Who would dream of doing such a thing? Certainly not the cold earth wanderers, with their cold words, and their even colder hearts and minds. Rimbaud would approve, if he were alive. He went into business, remember? Guns and slaves. Not very politically correct. But he was a demon of the nineteenth century. I am a demon of the twenty-first century. I have my own outrages. And I'm sure Lautreamont would approve. He wanted to smash the grid of the reality that common men and women are trapped in, like flies in jam. That's what I've been doing. But not just the reality of bankers and traders. Oh no. Writers too. No respectable [square] literary figure would have dreamt [nightmared?] of writing about finance and banking and MONEY with the sort of passion and enthusiasm that I have brought to the table. And what other serious writer would have had the imagination and the balls to abandon the printing press and the established forms for such an uncertain future in the world of blogs? No, I am on my own, for the time being. I am not afraid.

But I digress. I should be writing about that other emotional and odd man, Vince Cable. Unfortunately, this man is not a visionary. He's not a man who can see other realities. He's not even in touch with normal reality. This is what he says: 'On banks, I make no apology for attacking spivs and gamblers who did more harm to the British economy than Bob Crow could achieve in his wildest Trotskyite fantasies, while paying themselves outrageous bonuses underwritten by the taxpayer.' Did every bank take money from the taxpayer, then? First I've heard of it. Barclays did not take a penny. HSBC did not take a penny. Vince is just saying whatever pops into his little socialist head. It's so emotional, isn't it? And terribly odd!

I don't want to see this man on TV any more. I don't want to hear him on the radio. I don't want him in our glorious government. I may have to do something. A curse, maybe. Nothing too extreme. Or maybe I should banish him to the Shadowlands. Well, for a while, anyway. Six months or so. I wouldn't leave him there. I'm not a cruel shaman. But if I allowed him to come back, he would have to behave himself. He would have to stop attacking the bankers. I know they're not perfect. Many of them have absolutely no interest in mystical capitalism. But at least they love money. And anyone who loves money in this crazy world has half a chance of salvation. You take the money, my children, then you transcend it. Do you understand? This is the way. I teach it to you, children, like I was taught, by my Masters. There is nothing else. Not for us.

Michael Geoghegan isn't satisfied as the chief executive of HSBC. He wants more out of life. He wants to be the chairman of HSBC. And he is threatening to walk away, to become a lonely man in the desert, for he's like the best of them now, a financial shaman, like me, a potential god, with fire in his eyes, and with teeth that bite into reality and hold on for dear eternal life. And that is far better, actually. A financial shaman and a potential money god beats a chief executive and a potential chairman of a bank. Yes, it does. Any day of the week, any week of the month, any month of the year, any year of the decade, any decade of the century, any century of the millennium, and so we ... go on ... into eternity. We never stop. Blood pumping up, I feel so alive this morning! And so does Mikey Geoghegan. He is pushing himself, on! Onwards, we go, sailing to death, and beyond, like the masters we are, covered in glory, smiling and happy, warriors of the astral nights, lovers of the astral days; wrapped in gold sheets that have been stained with the mystic blood of financiers who died before we were born. But they're still with us. They like to hang around for the drug of eternity.

Mikey Geoghegan and I haven't always seen eye to eye, but I believe we are becoming brothers, soul to soul, blood to blood, flesh to flesh, completely non-sexual. We are not benders, after all. However, we bend reality. Our will is everything. One man wants to become a chairman of HSBC. That’s marvellous. But one man must understand that he can become anything! HSBC will pass away, as all things pass. Our flesh, our bones, will pass away. We are not afraid. We expect it. This is our business. We are masters of reality. Absolute ecstasy of stars and blood-swirling fucks, is one way to look at it, our situation. Personally, I have more than one way. I like to catch stars in my mouth, as they fall from the sky. You can do this when you are as big as God, when you are one with God. He allows the oneness. He wants us to join him. Money gods are demigods. Still a part of the material world, really. The astral plane? Does anyone truly understand what it is? I'm not sure it's heaven, up top, with hell below, on the lower levels. It could just be a more subtle material reality, more subtle than earth, I mean, which is cold and hard and ugly. But I will settle for the plane. It's what I know. It's what I love. Mikey Geoghegan feels the same way. Can't you tell that he's leaving HSBC behind, just as he is leaving this wretched earth?

This is only the beginning. Mikey Geoghegan has awoken! And I was the one who threw the bucket of water over him, as he slept, almost a dead man, at HSBC. Oh, he rises from the stale pit of a bank, and he wipes his eyes. The sun is smashing through the windows of his head, and his brain is like a great cathedral. His chakras are whirling! His aura is shining! He is a new man! A sha sha shaman, ready for battle, ready for anything - this cold earth has to offer, which is nothing at all, so off to the astral desert, we ... in our subconsciousnesses nesses, we will go. Will Douglas Flint come in as chairman? Will Simon Robertson come in as chairman? And Stuart Gulliver? Will he slide into the position of chief executive, once Mikey has gone? Like a maggot in a graveyard, he'll be looking for a tasty meal. Let it happen! Let them come! What do we care? Mikey Geoghegan and I will be gone, faces in the sky, legends for all time, lords of the big money, monsters of consciousness expanded like red giants. Gods.

Tuesday, 21 September 2010

Oh, I love it when a financial shaman comes out of retirement. Shivers down my spine! Such an intense feeling! There's nothing like it. It's better than sex! Why? Well, it's a confirmation that the fire never dies, that's why. Not just a feeling. The feeling is great, but I realize in my brain, intellectually - the fire, for all eternity! Ray Iwanowski, the former co-head of Goldman Sachs' Global Alpha fund, the former co-head of research in Goldman Sachs' quantitative investment group, the former ... whatever, has decided that enough is enough. Meaning: he doesn't want to sit around any more, waiting for the Reaper to take him. Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!

I have been speaking to Ray. With my mind. He's a top shaman. We don't need no phones.

_________________________

Like a storm of blood and fire, I will return.

Like a storm of blood and fire, Ray, you will return.

Like a storm of blood and fire, I will call the money to me.

Like a storm of blood and fire, Ray, you will call the money to you.

In the darkness of my astral night, I will listen to the owl.

But you won't cut its head off, Ray.

In the darkness of my astral night, I will touch the stars!

In the darkness of your astral night, Ray, you will touch the stars!

Who can judge me?

Who can judge you, Ray?

Only God can judge me.

You're like 2Pac, Ray!

Well, Big Herb can judge me too.

Yes, Big Herb can judge you.

And Ganesh the elephant god, and the ghosts of the dead financiers, and my Master - your good self.

My fingers are hurting, real bad. After an early lunch, I decided to play Rocky Raccoon on my guitar. Some lovely chord changes. But my fingers!

Never mind. Let's try and discover whether Gareth Abbot is a genuine person or just a thought-form on the astral plane. I am pretty sure that Crinan Capital is a genuine hedge fund, even though I can't find a website for it. However, Mr Abbot is a bit of a mystery. Some people like to claim that he is the chief executive of Crinan Capital. Oh yeah? Who the hell is Scott White then? Not another thought-form, surely? Hedgeweek should do a bit of research. Scott White is the chief executive of Crinan Capital! No one has the slightest idea who Gareth Abbot is.

Well, I have been speaking to Scott White. He tried his best to explain everything. I wasn't convinced. But here it is (edited highlights): 'Mikey, this is all very disturbing. There seems to be some confusion. I am the chief operating officer at Crinan. (Yeah, sure you are. Who's this Gareth nutter then?) I've heard rumours he's the chief executive, just like Hedgeweek says he is. (What do you mean you've heard rumours?) I've never actually met him, Mike. Although I saw his shadow once. (Listen, you better come clean with me, my friend. I have a certain reputation, you understand? I'm not someone you can fool with. Tell me the truth! It said on a Scottish newspaper website that you were the chief executive.) I'm the chief operating officer. Honest! I haven't got the brains to be no chief executive. Mr Abbot is a great man. I'm nothing. I'm the dirt on his shoes. (You haven't even seen his shoes!) I've seen his shadow! I've seen his shoes in their shadow form! (Scott, mate, do you think I was born yesterday?) Mr Fowke, please, I'm under enough pressure as it is. We've just launched the Crinan Stability investment fund. (Like I give a shit. I don't care what you've just launched, son. So, this Gareth. Focus! You're saying that he's just a thought-form, then?) I don't know what a thought-form is. I'm not into all this voodoo nonsense. (It ain't voodoo nonsense! It's mystical capitalism. Now, I suppose a thought-form could momentarily leave the astral plane and appear as a shadow on our cold earth; but that doesn't explain how he could set up a hedge fund and employ someone like you, who's never even met him!) I saw his fucking shadow! On the wall! (On the wall? Big deal! After a few whiskies, no doubt. I don't believe a word of this crap you're telling me.) I'm going to take some time off. (Time off?! You've just launched the Crinan Stability investment fund!) And here's me, feeling so unstable. Oh, the irony!'

Well, I wasn't convinced. Anyway, I'm going to get myself a mug of coffee now and a few McVitie's chocolate digestives, then it's back to Rocky Raccoon. And I'll write another post later, maybe.

As you all know, Eric Daniels is retiring from Lloyds Banking Group. He is the chief executive, for those of you who don't know. [Why don't you know?] But do you know that he will be leaving with millions and millions of pounds? £13 million altogether. Not a lot of people know that. That's salary, shares, bonus, pension pot, you name it. The Telegraph did - here.

Well, good luck to him! There's no harm in leaving a bank with millions of pounds, is there? Unless you happen to be carrying a sawn-off shotgun and wearing one of your wife's stockings on your head - but that's another matter! Let's not get into that. O Master, the stocking? Although you wouldn't be leaving with millions, of course. Bank robbers are paid nowhere near as much as chief executives. Maybe that's something one of our fucked-up trade unions can look into. Unequal pay - it's a nightmare, ain't it? Something should be done about it.

But back to Mr Daniels. Do you know I haven't written about Eric Daniels before? I've never even mentioned him in passing. Why not?! He's the chief executive of a major bank, and he doesn't merit a mention?! This is an outrage!

O Master, maybe you should do a post on Mr Daniels now, before he gets all upset and starts writing letters to the Times or the Daily Star or the Daily Sport, telling everyone what an absolute bastard you are.

O my child, what do you think this is?

Oh, silly me!

Dear reader, this, here, is my post about Eric Daniels. Long overdue, but better late than never, eh?

Right, let's get down to business. What do we know about Eric Daniels? Well, I suppose I could tell you about his German dad and his Chinese mum - an interesting combination! I could tell you about his years in Panama, Argentina, and Chile, working for Citibank. But I'm not going to tell you about any of that. It doesn't interest me, not even the interesting combination of his parents. I lied about that. (My interest, I mean.) It's just not interesting. Well, maybe a little bit. It's a little bit interesting.

O Master, this isn't going well, is it?

The problem, my child, is that Eric has never really struck me as the mystical type. Can you imagine him with a head of fire [his head] in the astral desert of our love? I can't. And if I'm not able to speak of a banker in mystical terms, I would rather not speak of him/her at all.

What do you mean, him/her? This sounds interesting! Tell us about Eric's struggle with his sexuality.

Eric doesn't struggle with his sexuality! As far as I know. I was refering to bankers in general. If they ain't all mystical and shit, I don't wanna know.

Fair enough. But I still maintain that there's nothing wrong with being a hermaphrodite. This is the twenty-first century, mate. We've got to be more sensitive and understanding when dealing with these issues.

Yes, my child, you are absolutely correct. My apologies to Mr Daniels and his family in this very trying time. I hope there's a happy ending to it. Doctors can perform miracles these days.

Monday, 20 September 2010

Yes, Cheyne Capital has closed its Macro Equities fund, and Jorge Giampaoli and Paul Keohane (two traders) have disappeared. No one knows where they are now. They'll never be seen again. But it's not all bad news because Cheyne has managed to raise over £64 million for its European Event Driven fund. All's well that ends well.

However, we shouldn't close our hearts (or our minds) to the suffering of the two traders. I say they have disappeared. I say they'll never be seen again. But I am the world's foremost financial shaman! I know where they are. I can see them.

Two traders, Jorge Giampaoli and Paul Keohane, wandering, wandering, in endless astral desert night. Bare feet, rags. I see them in the darkness, with my astral eyes. Their eyes meet mine. There is no great light for them, no fire. There is not even a moon for them. Only touches of starlight, here and there, on their flesh. And there is no shelter. No cave. Just cold sand beneath their feet. This is the price they must pay.

No external investment for the Macro Equities fund. That was the problem. And it must have hurt. Like a sea with no rivers. But the European Event Driven fund has managed to bring in quite a bit of money from investors. The Cheyne souls involved in that fund are not wandering in endless astral desert night, that's for sure.

I know how the two traders must be feeling. I have wandered in darkness. It was a long time ago. But I escaped. I was a special one. I don't know anything about Jorge Giampaoli or Paul Keohane. I have no knowledge of their personal qualities - qualities that may help them escape. So it's possible they will be seen again. It all depends. I just know they are suffering, that's all.

_________________________

Let me tell you about Cheyne Capital. Cheyne Capital vibrates in a lonely cosmos. I wanted it to. Vibration. I demanded it. With my words. Now, the echo of a voice. It goes on and on and on. Calling for someone. Pleading for something to happen. Trying to reach God? Maybe.

Oh, is this where I leave it all behind? Can I leave the two traders, wandering, in endless astral desert night? Can I leave Cheyne Capital, vibrating, in a lonely cosmos? Can I leave my room? Can I leave the earth? And if I leave, will my physical fingers stop moving? Will they cease to exist? And will my body burn up? And will my mind evaporate? Will anything be left behind? Just a vision, I believe. Just a picture in your head, dear reader.

My mind will be gone. My emotions will linger on, for a while. But there'll be a picture in your head. The way it can be. Not the way it is. The truth. Not the lies of the world. The ultimate reality. Not the utter shit served up by other financial blogs and websites. It will expand your mind. My mind will be gone, of course. But your mind? Massive!

Thursday, 16 September 2010

Some fake firm - run by awful degenerates, I should think - has been pretending to be a giant radioactive octopus like something out of a ridiculous sci-fi/horror movie. That's not the whole truth, of course. The mundane details (the rest of the truth) can be found at Fund Strategy.

But let's go after the giant radioactive octopus. Follow me to the astral sea (inside), children. Anything is possible there.

Right, the octopus in question is absolutely huge. [Look! Can you see it?] But like all octopuses it is genetically programmed to die after mating; so we won't have to put up with this situation forever. If it's a male octopus, it will die a few months after mating. If it's female, it will wait until the eggs have hatched. All two hundred thousand of them. Each one the size of a beach ball. They're radioactive, remember. I have no idea what the sex of our octopus is. Time will tell. We don't even know if it has mated with another radioactive octopus yet. [I fear we may be getting ahead of ourselves here.] That's something Guy Myles could tell us. He's the managing director at Octopus - the real firm. [If only he would answer his phone!] I know that Mr Myles swims in the astral sea every day. [He's not really a desert man.] If there's more than one radioactive octopus, he'll be able to tell us. [But he won't answer his phone.] So here we are, splashing around, trying to make some sense out of this story. Maybe Fund Strategy had the whole truth. Maybe there is no giant radioactive octopus. [Look! Can you see it?] That would make things much easier. If the authorities (FSA, police) get involved, they won't want to go after a giant radioactive octopus. The authorities don't have our sense of adventure. I would be very surprised if they had even heard of the astral plane, which encompasses the astral sea - although I have had the FSA on this blog, sniffing around. [If only Guy Myles would answer his phone. Oh, look! Can you see him? Mr Myles is engaged in mortal combat with the giant radioactive octopus! This is better than the Thrilla in Manilla, this is! Hit him, Guy! Knock him out! Definitely a male octopus. Such aggression! A bloody nose for Guy! Wow, this octopus can really fight!] In fact, the authorities would do well to keep right out of it. [Oh, Guy has smacked him in the beak! Nice one, Guy! This'll soon be over.] No, the FSA hasn't got the stomach for dealing with giant radioactive octopuses. Mr Myles has it all under control, anyway.

Oh, if I were to tell you, you would love it, wouldn't you? If I told you that Garett Stoffels was a man who had joined Cantor Fitzgerald, had joined its newly-created private capital group within its investment banking division, I bet you would explode with ecstasy. But who would clean it up? I will not touch your dirt! Astral love in the sand? I want no part of it, [if, if, mouth] if it means being your slave.

You should learn your place. You are my slave. Alternative investment funds? Middle market companies? Where do you think you are? I ain't writing a word about no such nonsense. Have you seen me in your nightmares, my face floating above in those red skies of blood? Of course you have! And yet you want to roll around in the sand with me like a little puppy? I am an astral beast, little puppy! I am a storm of blood and fire!

I am in a foul mood today. Make no mistake. This is not the best time to ask me who Garett Stoffels is.

O Master, who is Steven Tuch?

HOW DARE YOU ASK ME THAT!!! I will not have that named mentioned in this blog! Oh, I don't feel well. Is there anyone who understands me? Why am I so alone? The pressure I'm under. All these characters. I have to decide if they are good or if they are bad. I am the one who judges. But only Big Herb can judge me. I must not fail him. I look at a man, like Garett Stoffels. I pass his name on, with my recommendations. If I were to ever get it wrong, just once, I would have to pay a terrible price. The dead financiers would come for me. Would you like to be in my shoes, my head, my soul, dear reader(s)?

O Master, who is Garett Stoffels then? Let's clear this up.

I am so tired, so very tired. But I will tell yo[ooo]u. Garett Stoffels joined Cantor Fitzgerald from Atlantic-Pacific Capital's New York office. Co-head of direct private placements. That's what he was. Not was what he is. Now he's another co-head with another ... person. Throughout his career, Garett Stoffels had been directly involved in over seventy-five transactions aggregating in excess of $70 billion. Stoffels was [not is, not is, not is] a managing director in the real estate and lodging investment banking group of Bear Stearns, where he has [HAD, oh] provided capital raising and M&A advisory services to real estate companies and private equity sponsors. Previously, Stoffels was [not is, we want is] an officer in the real estate investment banking groups of JPMorgan and Credit Suisse. Stoffels receives [now, slipping, now] an MBA from Duke University's Fuqua School of Business, where he was [is, is, is, please] a Fuqua Scholar, and ... and ... and a BA in business economics from the University of California. Stoffels is [was, is] a CPA and a member of NAREIT. This is what you wanted! Bastard child!

O Master, no one wanted this.

Dear reader(s), leave us now. I will tend to the Master. I will soothe him. He feels these words, you know. 'Capital' is a dagger. 'Business' is a dagger. 'Investment' is a dagger. The Master is a great suffering soul. He needs a coffee break. He'll be back later with another post.

Not for a holiday. For the rest of his life! Or until he gets bored. But he won't get bored, will he? Not as a partner he won't. Yes, Goldman Sachs is making Brett Olsher a partner. He was a top M&A banker at Deutsche, for a while. Then Anshu Jain moved him to emerging markets. I guess he didn't like that. And I guess Goldman found out about his misery through one of its mystics. And the rest was history, as they say. Or it will be history, one day. The future isn't here yet. Mr Olsher joins Goldman in December. His appointment will have become a part of history by January. Let's wait until January. Then we'll speak of history. We have all the time in the cosmos, after all.

Now, this is where it gets dark. This is where I dive into a world of corruption and pure evil. Apologies to all the souls who have come here with a passion for blandness and superficiality. Do you want to be entertained? I am not your clown. This is not the website for you. You do not belong here. There are other places. Go to them. Don't come back.

O my children, [the brave ones who remain] I have heard terrible things about John Vaske. Who is John Vaske? Is that what you want to know? John Vaske is a master of evil! He is in league with the world's most demonic financier, Jack Pickles. And with Satan. He is on intimate terms with Satan. Bosom buddies, believe it or not. Why is this a problem? Well, unfortunately, Mr Vaske has somehow managed to infiltrate Goldman Sachs. I don't know how long he has been at the bank. I don't have all the details yet. Maybe he was a 'sleeper'. I don't know. A voice whispered in my ear only last night, and there is still more to hear. But the fact remains, Vaske is at the bank, and Mr Olsher will have to work with him. You see, they will both be heads together of the natural resources group. Someone (thing) at Goldman, with a sick sense of humour, has decided to throw them together. Yes, there is a demonic power, higher up at Goldman, pulling the strings. Vaske is a puppet. This power, oh, it may not have taken a human form. Could it be Jack Pickles, keeping an eye on his protege, John Vaske? [Just an eye that Jack plucked from the carcass of a jackal.] Could it be Satan, in the astral form of a raven? Is Mr Vaske even aware of this power? Actually, it is entirely possible that Mr Vaske does not fully understand what he has got himself involved in. Maybe he is not a master of evil at all. Just a searcher who has a taken a wrong turn. Maybe Jack and Satan approached him, crawling from behind the curtains of his bedroom. [Did he leave the window open, one summer night?] As stocking-clad women they could have writhed all over him while he slept! How could he have resisted that? In pleasurable dreams they would have taken him to hell! [O my children, there are sharks in every wave of pleasure!] Is Mr Vaske in too deep now? That's the question. And another question: will Brett Olsher get sucked in? Mr Olsher is my only concern, really. He is an innocent. I don't want to see him suffer.

Mr Olsher, (I hope you're reading this) I know you were miserable at Deutsche Bank, and I know you're excited at the prospect of becoming a Goldman partner, but maybe you should reconsider. Goldman may be for life, but hell is for all eternity.

Wednesday, 15 September 2010

No, this isn't a joke. Trade unions in the UK have agreed to work on a commission investigating high pay in the private sector. They are going to focus on the difference between the highest and lowest pay within FTSE 100 companies. Compass (the think tank) is involved as well. Good luck with that, comrades!

But this has put me in the mood now for investigating a whole load of shit I won't ever be able to change.

_________________________

Why is the sea so wet? Not damp. It's soaking wet! We can dip our toes, just our toes, into the sea (astral or physical) and they will get all wet. Then - if we want - we can dip our toes into the sand. The sand will dry our toes, but it will stick to them. How can we stop the sand sticking to our toes? Why is life so unfair?

Why is the moon in the sky? Bear with me. It's a good question. Of course, it's not always there. It goes away, and it comes back. We can't see it in the daytime. Yes, we can! Although we can occasionally. I love to see the moon early in the morning. But why is it in the sky? Can't we bring it down to earth? Surely something can be arranged?

Why is the sun so hot? We all love the sun, don't we? But why is it so hot? I don't understand. If only we could cool it down a bit, we could ... well, what could we do? What could we achieve by lowering the temperature of the sun? And do we need to achieve anything, anyway? If we had the will, we could lower the sun's temperature just for the hell of it. Let them try and stop us! O Master, who? Them.

Why does the earth spin around? Don't you feel dizzy? I know I do. If we could stop the earth spinning around, we would be able to get off. The earth spins at 1,038 miles per hour! (At the equator.) I've investigated. Is there anything we can do about this? Are we just going to sit back and accept it? Enjoy the ride, as it were?

Mortality! 'One day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? (Calmer.) They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more.' Well, what can be done about it? Who do we complain to? Someone must be brought to account. Have a word with God. Oh, I will. I'm not happy, you know.

Right, let's see if I can get my teeth into this story. Polar Capital has bought HIM Capital - a financial funds specialist, would you believe? Actually, the deal hasn't gone through yet, but it will. Give it time. I don't know how much Polar paid - or is going to pay (Tim Woolley wouldn't tell me), but the deal will add $230 million of assets under management to Polar. Great!

Well, as you may have already guessed, I have been speaking to Mr Woolley. This is what was said: 'Mikey, isn't this wonderful? Is Polar Capital accelerating growth or what? (Accelerating growth? Definitely. I'm really happy for Polar, Tim. How does it feel being chief executive now?) You don't want to talk about the deal? (How much are you paying for HIM Capital?) You know, Mikey, it feels great being chief executive. That's what I keep telling myself. (Yeah?) Oh yeah. (Have you heard anything from Mark Kary?) No. He's still in the desert, I think. (Yes, he is. But I would have thought he would have stayed in touch. Never mind. Some people are like that.) I imagine he's getting all burnt up with mystic love and shit. I don't blame him, if that's the case. I wouldn't want to stay in touch with losers from my past. Life of Riley, I should think, the life he has now. (You sound envious, Tim.) Oh, I don't know, Mike. When I took over from Mark, I thought I had it made. But there's an emptiness inside ... (Did he set you up with the dead financiers, before he went off?) No, Michael. Not so much as a letter of introduction. (That's a bit disappointing. But you have had contact with them, yeah?) No. (No?!) Mikey, I haven't heard one voice. I haven't had one vision. (Bloody hell! No wonder there's an emptiness inside, Tim. You must be feeling terrible, mate.) Gutted, Mike. Absolutely gutted. That's the only way I can describe it. (Tim, I'll have to sort this out for you.) Can you have a word with them? (Sure, no problem. They've probably just forgotten about you. The dead financiers can be a bit awkward, but -) They're scary guys, Mike. Or so I've been told. Maybe I shouldn't tempt fate. (What are you worried about, Tim? If they know you're with me, no harm will come to you. You do know who I am, don't you? What I am.) You're the world's foremost financial shaman. Everyone knows that. (Well, have a bit of faith then.) Sorry, Michael. Yeah, you're right. I'm just feeling a bit down, that's all. Even with the HIM Capital deal. Nights are the worst. The nights are drawing in, aren't they? Summer's gone. It'll soon be winter. You feel the cold at my age. I remember when ...'

He went on like that for a while. But I'm not going to take the piss. I'm prone to self-pity myself. I am determined to help him. I'll have a word with the ghosts of the dead financiers. See if I can get things moving. I'll also send Tim a copy of Awaken the Giant Within by Anthony Robbins. That'll be a real tonic for him.

Just a little bit. For $425 million. A minority stake. Jamie Dinan, chief executive of the hedge fund, will remain in charge. Credit Suisse won't interfere. There will be more money to come later, as long as everyone at York Capital Management does the right thing. Credit Suisse is still trying to get to grips with the desert. It doesn't want to be embarrassed. Jamie can go too far sometimes, when he's out of it. He's a good man though. I'm sure everything will work out fine.

_________________________

I'm finding it hard to concentrate on this story, to tell you the truth. It's not that I'm bored exactly [I'll probably write three posts today; oh, I love these square brackets, they're totally hip], it's just that I want to play my guitar. I will have to wait until tonight, I suppose. Once my fingers have got used to it again, I'm going to write some new songs. I wrote my last song in 1993. Such a long time ago! Songwriting. There's no harm in it. It won't interfere with my blogging or my financial shamanism. I might even make some money this time. I could have had a publishing deal when I was twenty, but I refused to let other people sing my songs. I was young and foolish. My singing voice has always been terrible. It was a missed opportunity. But I'm not going to get all depressed now. 'He not busy being born is busy dying.' You've got to look to the future! Not just me, dear reader, but you as well. We shouldn't dwell in the past. That won't do us any good. We all have regrets, don't we? I know you do, dear reader. I don't care how rich or successful you are, I know you have regrets about a few things in your life.

Songwriting. Yes, that has got to be the way forward. No arty-farty stuff neither. Proper commercial songs this time. I was listening to Sugar, Sugar on the radio the other day. It's a classic pop tune. That's the sort of thing I need. Then I'll make some decent money for once. Then I'll get a professional design for this blog; and I may even move it away from Blogger.com - although I have no complaints. Then I'll advertise on billboards at the entrance of Liverpool Street Station. That'll bring some readers in! Of course, my enemies won't like it, but fuck 'em. I'm not alive for those slags. One way or another I will make this blog one of the biggest in the world, and I will see it recognized as a revolutionary work of literature. I don't care how long it takes, and I don't care what I have to do. And the reason I'm telling you all this, dear reader? Well, I want to get some leverage on myself. Anthony Robbins says it is good to tell people about your plans. That way you'll stick to them because there will be massive pain attached to any failure. And we all want to avoid massive pain, don't we?

Tuesday, 14 September 2010

By the end of this year he will be gone. Yes, Nick Gartside, head of global fixed income at Schroders, is leaving to join JPMorgan Asset Management. He'll be working with Bob Michele on some sort of Strategic Bond vehicle. [I don't know anything about it. Don't want to know, really.] They know each other well. Well, they used to. Bob Michele is an old Schroders man. But Bob has changed a lot in the two years since they were together at Schroders. Maybe Nick won't like those changes. Maybe he'll be intrigued. Who knows? Or cares?

I care. There are all sorts of things that can happen to you in the desert. Some good, some bad. Some delightful, some horrific. Bob Michele has had mixed fortunes. He has a few scars. So do I. [Physical, not just astral.] I am not ashamed of my scars. I doubt that Bob is ashamed of his. But Nick may find them a little upsetting - if he ever catches Bob in a state of undress. Maybe after a game of squash or something. [I don't know what they will be getting up to. I don't want to know, really.] The teeth of the ghosts of the dead financiers. Even I had to put up with them in the early days. On my skin. The blood dripped into the sand. The sand was burning. I was crying. My bare feet were in flames. I was in agony. But it made a man of me! Bob knows what I'm talking about. He's been there. An experience like that changes you. But Nick is still a kid in many ways. Fresh-faced, nice smile, untroubled. The man is carefree. I can tell. I can always spot a carefree man. And Bob was like that, once upon a time. Well, two years ago. Only two years! He has crammed a lifetime into those two years. Well, the lifetime of a cold earth wanderer, anyway. Burning mystics, financial shamans, are different. We can live a lifetime in one night. Just ask Bob. I'm sure Nick will be curious. He'll be asking Bob all kinds of questions. And if Bob has the desire to answer them, his answers could have quite an effect on young Nick. Nick may find himself dreaming of the desert. That wouldn't be so bad. But the nightmares! Oh, the nightmares he could have! With them grabbing him in his sleep. Their cold eyes staring into his. Their hot fingers on his face. Oh! I don't want to remember. I wouldn't blame Bob if he refused to answer any questions. I'm sure Bob doesn't want to relive those horrors any more than I do. But it's the young ones, you see. They insist on knowing.

Nick, mate, if you're reading this, do me a favour, yeah? When you start to work with Bob again, try to be sensitive. It's not much to ask. I don't think I'm out of line here. Bob has changed. He's not the man you used to know. Just bear that in mind. Thanks.

But I love it. I love the cult of the individual. It seems to me that Barry Olliff, chief executive of City of London Investment Group, has become a communist. Or maybe he always was one. Maybe he infiltrated the finance and banking world with a view to bringing it down. Well, he has failed!

He says the City is made up of selfish and greedy people! Didn't he get the memo? Greed is good!

The point is, O my mystic children, that greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Wherever you are, in the Square Mile, on Wall Street, in the astral desert of our love, greed is right, greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms; greed for life, for money, for scrying fluid, for love, for knowledge, for burning sand, has marked the upward surge of mankind. And greed, you mark my words, will not only save Teldar Paper (Eh? O Master, have you ripped this off from somewhere?), but that other malfunctioning corporation called the United Kingdom. Thank you very much.

Why can't Barry Olliff understand this?

[I am an individual. You, dear reader, are an individual. We are individuals. As the great Felix Dennis once said, teamwork is the glue that binds the losers together. This is the way God made us. There may come a time, after death, when we will all come together, with God, as one universal consciousness. Yes, me as well. You'll find I'll join in with the rest of you. I am not afraid to lose my ego, my identity, under the right circumstances. But I am not holding hands with imperfect humans and singing The Red Flag. Not my cup of tea at all. They will not drag me down to their level. O my children, my reader(s), is this what you want for yourselves? Rather this: 'Tomorrow our flags waving, as we march winners, we have not only weapons, but the devil walks with us'. Our brains are our weapons! Our talents are our weapons! Why waste them?]

[By the way, when I used italics in the last paragraph, that wasn't the voice. I know it gets confusing sometimes. O Master, you could have used bold. O my child, and O dear reader - if you're still reading, I don't like to overdo the bold. It stands out too much. But I don't want your readers thinking - my readers aren't thinking anything! And even if they were, why would you care? I've got a reputation to maintain. You? A reputation? Don't make me laugh.]

O Master -

[Get back in here! What is your obsession with these square brackets, man? They're cosy. Cosy?! Yeah. Cosy. Whatever.]

It's so cold out here. And I feel naked. Anyone could be reading this, and thinking anything.

O Master, your readers aren't thinking anything! They wouldn't dare judge you. They value their lives. They value their sanity. They know what you would be capable of, if you ever turned against them.

Oh, I hope not. I hope the ghosts of the dead financiers haven't got it in for poor Mr Moffat. There's no reason why they should have. He did help Ganesh the elephant god, after all. No, Jack Pickles should be the haunted one. And Jack is the one who should be going to prison, not poor Mr Moffat.

Yes, Robert Moffat has been sent to prison for six months and fined $50,000 for his part in the Galleon hedge fund insider trading affair. Mr Moffat is the IBM executive who gave inside information to his lover, Danielle Chiesi. Danielle was a consultant at New Castle Partners at the time. She denies any wrongdoing, as does Raj Rajaratnam, the founder of the Galleon Group. Oh, it's all so confusing, and I'm not going to go and get and go into the ins and outs of it all. Robert and Danielle wouldn't want that. Let's respect their privacy!

It's the ghosts that concern me. Has power gone to their ghostly heads?

[I have known the touch of these ghosts, in the night. A buzz in the ears, that's all it takes, and then they have you. O my children, keep a light on! Burn a candle! Bang a gong! No, scratch that. Don't bang a gong. It will only annoy them. Of course, they wouldn't hurt me, and I enjoy being touched. But it's not for everyone. Some people get scared, real scared. Especially when the teeth sink in. Teeth! Do they have teeth, ghostly teeth?! Oh yes, they have teeth. On your skin. Teeth on your skin. But not mine. I am in a senior position. I am more or less untouchable, even though I enjoy being touched, on occasion, as I have already mentioned. I enjoy being touched. There are one or two female dead financiers. Only one or two. But that's all it takes to get off! But you don't want to know about my private life. Let's respect my privacy, for Christ's sake! I can't tell you everything. If only you knew. It all happens, in the night, you know. But you don't know. Maybe you don't want to know. I wouldn't want to know if I were in your position. If I could do it all again, I'm not sure I would - do it all again, that is. The mysteries can put a terrible strain on you. You have to be strong. Fortunately, I am strong. As strong as a superman on a mountain top, away from the filthy mob! Dressed in rags, and oh so filthy! Well, not in rags. I exaggerate. Dressed in bespoke suits, more like. But still filthy. Money is dirty! Even though we love it. And it stinks! Mystic perfume is the answer! Oh, you may have noticed, yesterday, I didn't write much. Do you know why? It's because I was in the City of London, wandering around in the drizzle, soaking up the atmosphere. Did any of you see me? I could have been walking behind you on London Bridge, or Southwark Bridge. What if I had attacked you from behind, lifted you up with my superman strength, and thrown you into the murky waters of the Thames? I could have finished you! But then if you had survived, what a story for your grandchildren! And that could have been me, staring, staring at you in Liverpool Street Station. Making plans for your future. So don't worry about the ghosts, my children. There are worse things around, made of flesh and bone. Lurking in corners of train stations, and walking over bridges.]

Monday, 13 September 2010

Fundsmith! What a great name for a fund! I wonder who it's named after. Probably someone called Smith. Someone with a massive ego, no doubt. But there's nothing wrong with that. I love people with massive egos. Massive egos make the world go round.

This Smith character will probably invest £20 million of his own money in Fundsmith. Just a feeling I have. And the fund will allow retail and institutional investors to invest alongside him/her, this Smith. [Probably him.] That's what I reckon, anyway.

O Master, who do we know called Smith?

O my child, it's a mystery. Maybe he's the shy, retiring type. Maybe I've got him all wrong. No one knows who it is. He could be a man lost in endless astral night. And it could have been his choice. He may have wanted to get lost. But he left his name behind! A gift to the world! Smith!

O Master, it could be Terry Fund!

No, it's not Terry Fund. What a ridiculous name! Is there such a person?

You never know.

No, Smith. John Smith? He could be anybody. Does it matter who it is? A new fund! That's the important thing. A new fund!

Terry Fundsmith?

O my child, you're clutching at straws now. There is no Terry Fundsmith. What an absurd idea! How do you think of these things? Terry Fundsmith! Madness!

O Master, it could be the man with the decapitated owl!!!

My God! You know, you might be right. It could very well be the man who had that owl's head forced into his mouth to shut him up. It's got to be him!

Friday, 10 September 2010

And I am very happy to reveal [to report, to let it be known, although some already know] that BarCap has a man like Helge Weiner-Trapness. Even better than that, it actually has Helge Weiner-Trapness. Mr Weiner-Trapness isn't like Helge Weiner-Trapness. Not at all. He is him. And no one can ask for more than that. Let us be reasonable. [Please.]

At this moment in time, it is 1.45 in the morning. I'm going to spend approximately three hours working on this post. That is a decision I have made. It means I won't get to bed until five or so. Is this dedication, or passion? Or maybe an indication that all is not well in my life, in my head, in my soul? I don't want to sleep. That's the honest truth. I have been asleep for over forty years. Now it is time to wake up. I am awake, almost.

To make things easier, I am listening to the instrumental part of David Sylvian's album Gone to Earth. It would be better if I were listening to Brian Eno's Apollo. I am well aware of that, so please, no emails. Unfortunately, I haven't got around to ripping that album to my laptop. But Sylvian is all right. At least he's not singing. I could not cope with his pretentious moaning this late in the night or early in the morning. Running like a horse between the trees? No thank you.

Helge Weiner-Trapness is working in Hong Kong. Head of BarCap's financial institutions group. That's what he is. That's what he likes to believe. It's the old story. You give someone a position and - hold on, I just had a strange sensation in my ear. I hope this isn't the beginning of a ghost attack. Not while I'm working, lads. Have a heart. I'm committed to this post now, and I want to finish it. A couple of ghosts. They've gone. Still, it could have been worse. I once had a dream about vampires. I woke up, got out of bed, drew the curtains, and was shocked to see two vampires at the window. Then I woke up properly. I had dreamt that I had woken up, you see. It's pretty funny, looking back. Although I wasn't laughing at the time, I can tell you.

Mr Weiner-Trapness was at JP Morgan for more than six years. He left in 2008. I imagine he was on the dole for a couple of years. Nothing wrong with that. It's nothing to be ashamed of, as long as you don't get trapped in that lifestyle. I'm restarting Gone to Earth, from the beginning, vocals and all. Why not? There are a couple of good songs. Silver Moon is a great song. Do you know that Sylvian's real name is David Batt, and that he comes from Catford? You wouldn't think it to look at him. I'm not having a go. He's done all right. He could have been a car mechanic. It's funny how life turns out. I mean, look at Helge. Hang on - 'Running like a horse between the trees'. Whatever, Dave, mate. I'm sure you know what you're singing about.

I bought a guitar yesterday. I wonder if Mr Weiner-Trapness likes his music. I wonder what he listens to. Only a cheap guitar. £70 from Argos. It's not my first. I've had a few. Sold them all. I once saw one of John Lennon's guitars on sale for £600. Around 1988/89. I had the money as well. I should have bought it. It would be worth a lot more now. I had a saxophone as well. I could play Baker Street on it. Badly. But the piano was my instrument. I could play Life on Mars? as well as, well, not Rick Wakeman, but well enough. Dear reader, I hope you don't mind my waffling on like this, but I'm not in the mood for the usual sort of post. I'm sure Mr Weiner-Trapness doesn't mind; and if he's happy, why shouldn't you be?

It's raining. Nearly three. 'I love the rain. It washes memories off the sidewalk of life.' Woody Allen. I feel calm. Rare for me, this. Silver Moon. Maybe I should write my blog on the nightshift from now on. It would interfere with my astral wanderings though. 'Soon the guiding moonlight will be gone'. Nice line. Rain has stopped already. Cool breeze through the window. It's ten, Thursday night in New York. What is she doing?

I've nearly forgotten about Helge Weiner-Trapness. Silver Moon again. Then maybe some Cohen. The best song I ever wrote was called Ophelia [another married woman]. I was twenty years old, and it was better than any song Dylan or Lennon could write at that age. But I never kept it up. Got lost in despair for decades. But I'm not going to get depressed about it. Life goes on. Some bitch stole all Cohen's songs, the royalties, that is. But life goes on. Everything happens for a reason. The internet was invented for a reason. You've got to have faith. Got to believe in your destiny, whoever you are, or will be.

'First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin'. Pause. For a while. I'm thinking. Time is passing. I will have something interesting to say in a minute or two. Pause. This could be a Harold Pinter play. Pinter was heavily influenced by Beckett, and Beckett had tons of pauses in his plays, which were written before Pinter's. So why is/was Pinter famous for his pauses? Maybe because there was little else in his writing. People don't examine stuff. They hear about the Pinter pause and then just accept that it belongs to him. But it should be the Beckett pause.

Close to a thousand words! It's gonna be a big one. It's certainly a strange one. A touch maudlin, perhaps. I can't help that. I have no control. I don't want any control. I'm at the mercy of my genius.

God knows what Helge Weiner-Trapness is making of all this. Are you reading it, mate? Don't worry about a thing. It'll soon be over. Next week I'll be writing about some other poor sod. [My laptop just freaked out and shut itself down. Either it doesn't like the Cohen album, or it doesn't like me. I will soldier on! So will Cohen.] Take This Waltz. 'With its very own breath of brandy and death'. Federico Garcia Lorca helped out. Good old Federico Garcia Lorca!

Various Positions. My eyes. My brain. This has been an experience. But this won't be a selected post. Too personal. Best let it disappear into the archive. You have to get personal every now and then. It's all about having no fear. No fear leads to glory.

Tired now. Haven't got the energy to edit this. Hope there aren't any mistakes. If there are, let them be a part of the work. [Edited a bit. Couldn't resist.]

Thursday, 9 September 2010

The cheeky bastards! £17.5 million! Why can't those freaks at the FSA go out and earn an honest living like everyone else, instead of poncing off the likes of Goldman Sachs? What are they going to spend all that money on anyway?

Well, even though I ain't working for him no more, Lloyd Blankfein phoned me a little while ago. This is what he had to say (and his language was as appalling as ever, so this is not for the sensitive - update: I've censored Lloyd, this has got to stop): 'Mikey, what the f**k is it with these Limey c*********s? (Er, Lloyd, I'm English, you know?) Oh, sorry, Mike. I didn't mean nothing by it. Cut me some slack, man. I'm angry. I'm upset. £17.5 million! How much dollars is that? (It's a lot of dollars, Lloyd.) What are they going to spend it all on? (That's what I want to know.) FSA! What can you do with people like this? Jesus H. Christ! Jesus H. Christ! What is their freakin' problem?! I'll tell you, Mike, they're miserable because their mothers take it up the f*****g ***! (It's a point of view, Lloyd.) Hey, I want you to come work for me again. Freelance, of course, but I'll pay you more this time. (I can't. Bobby wants me to do something with him. He's going to be the big man at Barclays soon.) The big man? He's a kid, Mike, a f*****g punk. He'll never be a man, big or small. I've never understood the friendship between you two. Are you queer for each other or something? (It ain't like that, Lloyd.) It ain't healthy, Mike. Stick to the ladies. Like that lovely Gillian. She's over here now, you know. Such a lovely lady! I bet you miss her, eh? (Well, even when she was in London, nothing much happened.) Oh, that's a shame. That's why I'm saying, work for me again. You can relocate to New York. (I don't know, Lloyd. You're not an easy man to get on with. Being in New York with you? I don't know.) You need some adventure in your life, some excitement! (I'm on the astral plane practically every night.) The astral plane?! I'm talking New York, man! Out and about. You, me, Viniar, hitting the clubs? Forget about it! There'll be wall-to-wall p***y. You won't know where to look. (Not really my scene, Lloyd.) All right, Mike, have it your way. I guess you won't want to fly over on astral wings, whatever, to FSA headquarters for me, huh? Just take a few of those m****s down for old times' sake? (I can't do it, Lloyd. I'm busy.) All right, Mike, you're busy. I understand. We were good though, weren't we, in the days? (Yeah.) See ya, Mike.'

Wednesday, 8 September 2010

Simon Dingemans is leaving the greatest bank in the world to join a drug company. Does this make any sense at all? Maybe. Chief financial officer. Not a bad position. A lot of people will say he's done well for himself.

I wonder if GlaxoSmithKline is moving into the desert. Plenty of peyote in the desert. Is that why the firm needs Mr Dingemans? We all know that Goldman employs more financial shamans than any other bank.

Simon Dingemans says -

Come on come on come on, why haven't I shaken the world? Teeth on my fist, blood on my fingers. I enjoy the pain. Come on! I am a sha sha shaman. I have worked with sha shaking sha shamans. I know their ways. Their ways are my ways, my high ways in the red sky. I am a sha shaman sha man. Hallucinogenic cactus sha! This is it. Bitten by a sha rattlesnake! Thunder stars like money, silver coins. Drum sha drums in my head man! Burnings across the desert, yearnings sha man. Chanting and sha shaking sha dancing on man the earth! Then sha man on the moon, once we had flown off. You, you, you were there, shaman. I was, I was there, there, there, I was, I am, I did did not not come back, back. Loo loo look! It doesn't move, the sky eye. It stays where it is. We move. We go, and we return. I have not returned, not not yet. I will, I want sha drums banging blood fuck. They want me at Glaxo Glaxo Smith O Kline O O O o o o. Want me! They can have me! They can take it, taste me! And I will take them, take to them sha man man man into the fire! Wandering in astral nights, we will go go gone timeless madly fearless. Once I've returned. I live on the moo moon moon. I work on the moon moon moo moo moon. Goldman Sachs does not not sha mind. No mind, no mattersssss. A very understanding employer er er errrsss. I hope Glaxo will understand man sha for it. I hope Glaxo will appreciate everythings I will be will will willing and able to do for it. Because I am aware, awake, slipping like a snake, a snake, struggling with no skin ski skin sin skin flesh of fire burning below beneath under deeper dar dar darker dar, cracking real real sha sha sham sham shaman shamanic vision man! It needs this! This this is is sha shaman sand blood trick trickles eyes in mouth tasty love, yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!Yeeeeeeeeeessssssssss! Storm of sha blood, sha man fire, tears aflame man, aching for it, now! Here! Animals! Take it! This is ... come on! Come on come on come on, man man sha sha sha man.

Interesting. Mr Dingemans obviously realizes that GlaxoSmithKline wants him for more than his understanding of finance and all his years of experience. So Glaxo must be going after the peyote. I'm not sure I approve, really. I'll have to think about this. I don't have anything against Simon, but I can (and will) block his appointment to the position of CFO if I have to - if I decide it's necessary, I mean.

Yes, investment adviser Neal R. Greenberg has been charged by the SEC with recommending hedge funds to all and sundry. Well, not 'all and sundry'. I just love that phrase. No, he was recommending hedge funds to the old and infirm. But is it a crime? Is it a crime to recommend hedge funds now?

'The SEC's Division of Enforcement alleges that Greenberg falsely stated that the Agile hedge funds offered and managed by his two investment advisory firms were suitable for conservative investors who were retired or nearing retirement. However, the Agile hedge funds used leverage and concentrated in a small number of investments. The funds suffered substantial losses in September 2008 and ceased redemptions to investors. The SEC Division of Enforcement further alleges that the Agile hedge funds improperly collected approximately $2 million in management and performance fees that were not adequately disclosed to investors.' More here.

Oh, okay, fair enough. He collected $2 million in management and performance fees without letting his clients know - adequately. And the funds weren't suitable for conservative investors. I have to say that the SEC has got it right for once. Well done, lads at the SEC! And lasses! We shouldn't forget the girls. They do a great job as well. Although I'm not sure any were involved in this investigation. John Mulhern and Jay Scoggins were the ones. Jay is a man's name, isn't it? You never know in America.

That's the end of this post, then.

O Master, isn't there a mystical angle to this story?

O my child, you're wondering if I've seen Mr Greenberg burning with money in the astral desert of our love.

Yes!

No, I haven't.

Oh. Was he working for Jack Pickles?

Jack Pickles? The world's most demonic financier? That evil bastard who has his fingers in almost every corrupt pie in the world?

Yes!

No, Mr Greenberg wasn't working for Jack. He's just a run-of-the-mill investment adviser who has got himself into a spot of bother. It's not a very exciting story, to be honest with you.

What the hell's going on then?

I'm pretending that this is one of those square blogs, you know, where people write all day long about finance - in a serious way - like anyone gives a shit.

Oh, I get you. Nice one! Just one thing though ...

What?

Your having a conversation with me, a disembodied mystical voice, rather ruins the effect, wouldn't you say?

Yes, I would say that, my child, so why don't you fuck off?

Charming.

Dear reader, it started off so well, didn't it? However, I think I have proved to everyone's satisfaction that I can be mindlessly boring when I want to be. But you can't legislate for mystical children interrupting you while you write.